


and this is how you know

by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Implied Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan/pseuds/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: It is at this point you wonder who really won. (Asura x Arachne)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year and I just found it again

There is something so mesmerizing about her that even you can't quite resist, something about the color of her eyes and the spidery lashes that curtains them so. Her voice curls just like smoke, light as web, weightless and soft and gentle against your very nerves. She envelops you the way the ocean would, the way only darkness can—swallows you whole, wraps you up so tightly in its hold it's hard to tell if you'd ever been a separate entity in the first place.

A part of you really likes this, wants so deeply to disappear inside of her you ache all over.

This scares you, as most things tend to do. It boils inside of you, twists around your organs and whispers its way into the back of your mind and makes your hands tremble whenever she so much as breathes a different way. It beckons you to bury your nose against her throat and breathe her in, guides your fingers toward the supple curves of her hips, and attempts to devour her in this way. Something inside of you throbs with the want to twist her up underneath your hands and pull her apart bit by bit and sink your very being into hers—to swallow all she is until you are no longer separate entities.

You want to keep her in the most sacred of ways, to have her pinned behind a thin plate of glass to look at and turn about and marvel over, to have her at your side always with her arms ready to embrace you at the slightest of your fears, to have her sprawled underneath you open and warm and soft all over—

There is no clear cut reason why you're doing this, or how it even came to it in the first place. You bunch her long, long skirt up over her thighs and slide your naked fingers between them to touch and then stroke and then curl up inside of her, this burning wetness all tight and clenching around them. Her head tilts back and her mouth opens and from her crimson lips these senseless moans float around you like aimless wishes.

You want something, you want it so bad you can taste it on your very tongue—and you do, you do, you push it between the pink folds and lap up the sweetness coating it and your fingers. She cries, _yes_ , and you don't think this is ever going to be enough. You are a greedy god, and she a boundless chalice filled to the brim with everything you've ever wanted.

And you know for a fact that isn't really the case, but in this moment and at this second, it's all you care about.

She does nothing to stop a single thing of it, tangles her pretty hand into your hair and rolls her wide hips up into your face, grinds and twists and writhes all thoughtless and fervent. Her thighs open for you willingly, just as eager to give as she is to be taken. Your name falls from her full lips like prayers, like chants, like song, a litany wreathed with curses. It sounds so lovely to your ears you shiver right down to your bones.

 _Oh_ , such a sweet and breathless sigh leaves her and her muscles are fluttering all around your fingers, your waiting tongue drowned by her nectar. There is the tipping point, the spike in the throbbing ache you're feeling, and suddenly you are clawing at her dress, pushing and then yanking her down toward you.

You hitch the skirt up her hips and sink yourself into her blistering body, bury your nose into the crook of her neck and breathe in so deep you feel you'll almost suck her in with it; she smells just like your damnation, and that's the best and worst part about it, you think. The wonderful bed she's provided you squeaks under your pace, pushes her up against you quick and forces the rhythm toward desperation. But that's just as well, all of it becomes too much too fast and you don't think it can be anything less. Her legs hook over your hips, hands sliding up your skin like iron pokers, ruby lips working up your throat—sweet nothings whispered into your ear and then jaw and then cheek and then lips.

You try to swallow her very words, tongue pressing against her teeth and gums and cheeks. Her noises rise toward pleading, half toward _don't stop_ and half toward _I can't, oh, I can't—_

Oh, that's good. So very, very good.

You fuck her right into the mattress and this is how you know she isn't winning, this is how you know you haven't been bested just yet. She is reduced to keening whines, your name broken up in gasping breaths. Your testament comes in the form of searing scratch marks down your back, the heaving of her full breasts, her clenching muscles and sopping wetness and frantic hips rocking up into yours. She pulls at your hair and chokes out a plea and digs her nails when you bite at the milky flesh of her breast.

This need that boiled within you has begun to cool, very nearly sated. You hurry to fulfill its last flickers before they're too far gone.

When you finish, you wrap your arms close around her and bury your face into the pretty curve of her throat. You push and sink and press as near as you can until there is nothing left to steal her away from you. You fill her up so well she's brimming with you, and that's all that really matters at the end of it all.

You twitch and hiss and slide your tongue between her lips, taste her relief and her satisfaction in the timely way she returns your kiss.

It is at this point you wonder who really won.

 _"God,"_ she whispers with such reverence, such tenderness, you can't tell if it even matters at all.

.x.


End file.
